2.2three acres!

i have not been here in a long time because i have been under tremendous stress. the stress is so overflowing that i think it's quite amazing that i still have hair. i have a comb-over now. in two weeks or less that this stress will be greatly reduced and i can move into a new phase of obsessing! long story short is i have never masturbated more in my life than i am now. yes! even more than when i first found out that i could do stuff like that to myself!

i like having the drinks but sometimes lately i feel very hung over very fast even if i've only had like 2 glasses of wine with lunch. yes, with lunch, don't you dare judge me. then some of those times i feel like i need to puke even. what is this business all about anyway? if you say i'm knocked up i will personally shit in your shoes because i'm not so take it easy. i just sneezed seven times and little sneezelets snuck through my hand and speckled my computer screen. anyway, i watched a movie about a girl who went down on her dog in college and was later torn about whether or not shoe should tell her fiance. dude. and no, they didn't show it. they = that raspy bobcat character who directed the film. the moral was no, do not tell your fiance that you're creepy and the sickest chic ever. jeeze.

my first night in mexico i found a bartender and i sunk my giant, very long acrylic nails [which were painted with tiny palm trees and corona bottles, alternatively] deep into his face so he would love me for the entirety of my time there. he was so totally my bff that he even invited us to the mountains with him and his family on his only day off. i agreed in my drunken state but then thought better of it in my hangover state the next day because we were afraid we'd be sold into white slavery or something. the sun rises very late there and that confused me but mostly because i was always hungover and eager for it to become 10am so that i could shampoo myself into a less shitty feeling with a tom collins or a vodka lemonaid slushee from my bff. oh how i miss that man. i'm sorry to say there weren't many ladies who were lookers at the resort, maybe 5 at most, and i was one of them. you bet your ass those acrylic nails put me in the top 5.

sometimes i go to the bathroom at work and just sit on the toilet infinity after i'm done peeing and i call it 'me time'. sometimes 3 or 4 people will come in and pee while i'm enjoying me time and a lot of times at least one of those people will leave without washing their hands. i'd love to leap off the pot to see their shoes so i know who's gross but then i'd be the gross one with my cheek to the bathroom floor.

the night my vacation started we went with happy hour. we ate a lot of stuff and drank a lot more. a conversation at the bar lead to me suggesting we drive out to vegas that night and finish out that weekend proper. everybody was in except one crybaby who was being such a crybaby that she forced me to corner her in the bathroom and strongarm her into going with us. my lesson there was to make sure i was taking fake shots while everyone else took real ones, that way everyone would be 100% in and i might even still be able to drive.

we didn't go.

i remember having a conversation with a hot old guy and wondering if i could get him to fuck me in the bathroom. he was really old too. what the hell is my obsession with old guys anyway, seriously?

anyway.

on our way to another bar i backed into an illegal without a license. her shotgun rider was getting smart and tried to get money out of me. i got brave and offered to just call the police instead. the lady selling roses in a bucket assured her that was not an acceptable option and we were on our way. shit my pants much? kindof!

fuck work.
fuck it right in it's pretty little mouth.
i was getting so depressed about having to go back that i've been ripped since saturday afternoon.
i'm pretty sure i'm still drunk now so we'll talk later.

This text is set to "small" instead of "smallest" for old blind people since the old and blind is the demo for this blog

ok so yeah my binger will be 33 days rather than 30. so fucking what. fucking sue me. i don't know how i can be expected to run 13 miles hammered. it was not supposed to happen this way. speaking of hammered, i think it's charming when you young guys say words like 'hammered' and 'bro' and 'sick'. and when i say charming i mean that in a summer's eve kind of way. remember when i only attracted 23 year old hot chics who thought i too was 23 so it was ok for us to make out in public? well it appears i've moved on to 27 year old doucheys who think i too am 27 so it's ok to make out in public. yes sir, wear your aviators in bars at night and keep your breezy button down shirt buttoned down to show your hairless chest and silver ring on your middle finger. this is not the one who had my hand down his pants though. no, not him. i would never hold the cock of a man who wears a middle finger ring.

tight

3days until i start a 30day binger. wait, maybe 2 since that bitch should technically start friday. yesss friday. i plan on being a lady lunching a lot. lunching with all the friends i can't ever seem to make time for during the real life times. i plan on thrift shopping with my sigg bottle full of a vodka concoction twice weekly. i plan on catching the pig flu in mexico while making out with some bartender in some resort bathroom then recovering from said flu easily because i won't be able to tell if it's actually the flu or just a hangover. by recovering i mean shampooing my drunk into a nice drunken lather again. rinse. repeat. all i can talk about is being on vacation and when i get back i'm going to read this and be so fucking pissed off that i'm not still on vacation. i have 4 new years resolutionswritten on a piece of scrap paper and taped to the wall of my office. i have already failed at the first two. wait, looking at 3 & 4 it seems i am failing at those too. also, i gave breastfeeding advise yesterday.

ps. xtx, i'm coming to near you sometime in the next 30 days so whattaya say to a liquid lunch? and maybe a burrito. your beaches are better than mine.

16 days shy

hooray for the world, i am drinking again. 6 months is a long time and now i'm buzzed from one beer while i wait in line for an hour and a half for a hot dog. i'm buzzed from one glass of wine while i sit in a rocking chair with my feet up on the fire pit. i'm buzzed from 3 shots of rice wine, all taken with erect pinkies. it will be a long road to get back to the point of going down on 3 martinis before i notice the stirrings. one thing though, the conversations are easier. to start, at least. i'm the bravest little chicken shit you know. i don't need booze for anal and he does. weird.

i'm leaving on a
red-eye
for NY tomorrow.
not fun NY, upstate NY.
this trip comes at a very
inopportune time
for me as one of my traveling companions and i are in a
rough place.
fake smiles,
even for someone like me, are
ridiculous.
baseball hall of fame.
i would like to stand toe-to-toe with someone in
that town
and look into her eyes.
UP
into her eyes
(i'm short)
and give her the look of
doom.
i'm sure you had no idea how
scrappy
i am.
yankee game.
no beer.
lame.

douchey

No, I am not on vacation...yet. I have been busy being a douchebag. Here is a list of douchey things I have done since we spoke last:
i wrote code for 3 weeks straight then birthed a brand new website and it was painful and gave me stretch marks and has a douchey face that only a mother could love. i finished 90 days of that douchey p9ox and it was painful and gave me stretch marks but now i have douchey guns with cannons and rocket launchers and scopes attached. i have stuck to my douchey personal goal of not drinking alcohol for 5 of the 6 proposed douchey months and it has been painful and has most likely given me stretch marks and come day 6months +1day when I do finally drink again it will be a douchey waste of 'all inclusive' because i'll be shitfaced after one drink. i have eaten some chocolate fondue that was so delightful that i swear it was actually shit from heavenly angels with beautiful breasts and shiney hair. ok, so that wasn't so douchey. maybe the analagy was. not sorry. but i will be on vacation soon.

3.5 wks

This has to be some kind of fucking record, right? Well I guess it's more of a non-fucking record if you're gonna get all technical with it, be that way, jerk. Yeah, go ahead and rub it in. You heard me. Anyway. I was at the mall the other day, I just strolled along by myself and would find myself ducking in and out of the usual stores. Some were for girls a lot younger than me but I still kind of feel like I can get away with it because I'm little and youngish looking. I tell ya, I can fool you with like 10 years, I swear. Well I also found myself in the same stores, at the same time with this stunning ladyperson. It wasn't like I was stalking her or anything, and trust me I would totally tell you if I was, but I guess we were just walking on the same path in the mall-two people who started at the same place. So I told you she was stunning and she was. She was thin and porceline and had a really cute little sloped nose. My guess is that she was a ballerina and I guessed this because she was thin yet muscular and had very good posture. Like, she was silently encouraging me to straighten up. Her hair was dark and her eyelashes long. She had little boobs but a killer butt. I think you get it, she was a looker. I'd hit it. Anyway, a little while later I found me and my fake-shopping buddy in a shoe store where the shoes are expensive but sexy-just like me. haha, just kidding, I'm not THAT sexy. So I'm waiting for the sales guy to bring out fourteen pairs of shoes for me so I'm just sitting back on the leather couch with both arms splayed out to the side, you know, relaxin. Of course in walks lady friend and she seemed to know exactly what she wanted because she walked up to a black patent leather jobby and asked for a size 8. She sat kind of across from me and got ready to try them on by taking off her own shoes. You know when someone's voice doesn't match their face? Well her feet didn't match her at all because they were gnarley. I'm serious. Our fake-friendship ended right then and there and maybe that's silly or petty of me but damn woman! And I think that locked up the fact that she's a ballerina. I bet you only kept reading because you thought something better would happen so sorry to dissapoint you. Oh wait, here's something! Soon after that I got a text message that read, "I'm gonna jack off in yer hair." It was from a girl. I laughed and tried on all those shoes and walked out the opposite way of my ex fake friend.
Like I said, it's some kind of non-fucking record.

Only a couple more days of livin my life as xtx' favorite number and it seems that all of my friends have become knocked up douchebags. seriously, all of them. they're all knocked up. they're all killing me with their douchebaggery. i'm being a bit of a crybaby so ok enough. check this out. i get a month off work. for free. this is in recognition of working in the same spot for 5+ distinguished years. so i am busy planning what i will do with this time and it's harder than you think, especially because the state of california is being a huge dickface and not sending me my money. you know what california, you stupid bitch? what if i owed YOU money and was like "hey, i mis-managed my money so unfortunately i'm not going to be able to pay you. indefinitely. whoops! sorry about that." yeah right, try saying anything close to that and half my check is going to that dirty whore california and i wouldn't be able to say shit about it. so what i'm saying is, california i love you and your perfect weather but give me my fucking money. skank. i do not know why california is a female. i digress. i am leaving this country during that free month off. i am also running a marathon. i am also camping. not in that order. when i leave the country i will go to another country where i only speak the language when i am drunk. well guess what?! since i am training for that marathon i am not drinking! how will i converse with the people in this foreign land? how will i make out with girls in their 20's without first drinking 3 beers followed by 3 shots? (that is not required but it is usually what preceeds my making-out-with-2o-yr-old-shenanigans.) hot 20 somethings love me and they love making out with me. it is a curse. one that i hope never ends.

i'd say that 98% of my life is spent wondering how the people i encounter in my daily life are in bed. and how they'd fair with me, if given the go'head. like that super nice guy at work, all american, kind of looks like mr incred ible from that cartoon movie. sometimes his pants are a tad too short but this is more about fucking and less about fashion, right? i guess. anyway, he's the kind of guy who asks you how you're doing every time you pass him in the halls-then i feel bad because i just say fine and dont' ask back. i'll walk behind him and find myself thinking 'well, he has a kid so that means he had sex at least once. so is he like my bf-hating every minute of it, doing everything in his power to make sure he doesn't have to look at the vagina? or is he like me, completely starved and wishing on shooting stars that someone will fulfil my rape fantasy or pray that one day, ONE DAY, i'll be lucky enough to get DP'd all proper like?' i settle on the thought that he and his wife plan every encounter-mostly around her period or whether or not he was a good boy and took out the garbage without her asking. all while he's secretly searching craigslist to find and fuck a mexican tran ny with too much eyeliner and a tight, tan ass. that fat jerk two offices down: likes to be called daddy and secretly wishes he could find a hot young japchic to sh it oh him. the chic who told her (now ex-shocker!) husband that he couldn't take her in the ass until their 10 yr anniversary: gives terrible head must shower immediately afterwards. my boss: loves to bend a lady over anything, just as long as she's completely naked. the security guard at the gate of the garage: on more than one occasion has turned up in the emergency room with a litebulb up his ass. the douchebag who sold me my phone headset at the kiosk in the mall: puts a gun to his girlfriends face while he fucks her, while they lay upon a bed of dollar bills (wishes they were hundos). everybody. i study their faces looking for any clue they'll give me. how do their hands hang at their sides? how do they walk? how are they touching the person they're with. this is not a science. i'm gross.

I would tell you all about it if I thought you wanted to listen. Instead I talk about things that I know will get a response. Still, I'm having a hard time dealing with feeling like I have no control over a lot of things. It's ironic to say you just want to be taken care of, then all of a sudden you're unable to take care of yourself. I'm pretty sure that's not even irony. I'm a comedian in my own head. I will sit in an empty room and strain to think of something genius. Like when you're concentrating so hard that your tongue pokes out of the side of your pursed lips and your eyes squint and your back aches. It's disappointing when all that comes to me is the image of U ma Thur man with blotchy red eyes and a jagged cut on her left cheek making dirty love to an obese man with tits larger than her own. His frown says he's just as disappointed as you are while his fat, sweaty balls wish they saw the light of day more often than they do. U ma wishes she didn't queef while she did yoga but the fat man forces so much air up there when he fists her. She's still more content than I am.

sometimes

sometimes, you cannot speak of your love for another.

sometimes, someone will suck you in and spit you out when you get too close because that is all they know how to do.

sometimes, someone’s heart will break and crack into tiny little fragments in their chest before it even hits the ground.

sometimes, the timing is off.

sometimes, things go right and sometimes things go horribly wrong.

sometimes, you give and sometimes you take.

sometimes, you say you are sorry.

sometimes, you walk away.

sometimes, things are not your fault and sometimes others will see differently.

sometimes, love just isn’t enough.

sometimes, well…sometimes, love is too much.

sometimes, things aren’t always what they seem.

sometimes, you have no energy and it takes every ounce of strength left to open your eyes, stare up at the ceiling and force yourself out of bed.

sometimes, you can’t breathe. you can’t even whisper a barely audible hello to a complete stranger because you know the second you open up your mouth, your voice will crack and the tears will fall because your heart and mind just can’t seem to stop thinking...

sometimes, you are skipping down the street whistling a merry, little tune because you are the one that walked away.

sometimes, you are so sad and alone that you can’t even stand to be in your very own skin.

sometimes, you are in love. so much in fact, that nothing else really seems to matter and you are flying. you are flying so high that you literally cannot breathe because the beautiful feeling next to you feels that good.

sometimes, you can’t sleep at night. you toss and you turn and it sucks because you know in just a few short hours you have to force yourself to get up and go to work.

sometimes, writing in your journal just isn’t enough. so you find yourself typing uncontrollably and you send your passage to a wide, open space for all the world to see. and you find comfort in that because someone out there is going through the exact same thing as you and no matter how uncanny it is, they can 100% relate to everything you are saying/typing, feeling and thinking. you then realize that you are not alone after all.

sometimes, you sleep well. a little to well.

sometimes, you regret things; whether it be actions or words and sometimes you don’t regret a thing.

sometimes, you wake up and look over at your beautiful feeling, who is sound asleep, and think about how much you love them. then your ego takes over and tells you how much you despise them. how your beautiful feeling is no longer beautiful because it is bringing you down and everything else around you. it is too much work, too much energy for you to deal with. your beautiful feeling has gotten to close and it has made you see things in yourself that you were not ready to see, nor were you prepared to see. you start to get angry and make up every excuse as to why it won’t work. without hesitation, you get up, you get dressed, you pack up your belongings and slowly and quietly creep towards the door, knowing full well it is a point of no return. whatever reasons your ego is giving you to walk beyond that door, you are listening because your ego is a very powerful thing; despite what your heart says, your ego forces you to open that door. it’s not your fault, nor is it your beautiful feeling’s fault.

sometimes, things just happen and things occur and it is out of your control. so you open that door and you leave with no kiss on the forehead, no handshake, no peace, no wish you well, no note or message of any kind. you just simply walk away.

sometimes, you wake up and look over at a total stranger because you were trying to fill a void by having meaningless sex.

sometimes, you wake up and look over and see nothing but an empty space. so you roll over on your back and stare up at the ceiling and a tear falls and gets your ear all wet…but you don’t care because you are much too involved in your thoughts. and you begin to wonder about your beautiful feeling because it wasn’t too long ago that they lay next to you. and you realize your ego was wrong all along…you don’t hate your beautiful feeling. in fact, they were one of your greatest teachers. had it not been for them, you would not have learned all that you did since your breakup. and then you realize you never stopped loving that person. in fact, you love them just as much, if not more, today than you ever did before; even though it has been months since your last interaction. and then you get upset, sad and frustrated because you can’t call them or email them to say hi or to even say thank you for whatever reasons you have.

sometimes, you treat another horribly; even though you know it is wrong and would never want to be treated in the same fashion yourself, you do it anyway. why? after all, you did share a history with that person. it doesn’t matter how or why it ended, what does matter is respect for another human being. swallow your pride and kick your ego to the curb and at the very least, shake hands before you walk and kick them to the curb.

sometimes, you are the crusher.

sometimes, you are the crushed.

sometimes, you cannot speak of your love for another, for whatever reasons you have. no matter how intense, how strong, how passionate, how beautiful, how chaotic, how distant or how real your feelings and love are…sometimes, typing is all you have left.

sometimes, you want to talk with that person and tell them anything and everything, even if it is as just a friend. you miss this person in your life, just because. but you can’t tell this person anything because this person doesn’t want to be contacted because this person’s ego says so.

sometimes, you are the one in control and say, ‘please, no contact.’ no matter who you are and what the situation is…everyone deserves a second chance. we have all been the crusher’s and we have all been the crushed, so we all know what it feels like on either side. why spit on someone then? if you can aide in closure, in giving someone peace…please do so. if you are not willing to give a second chance to the friendship and or the relationship, at least say, ‘peace to you’…then walk away.

sometimes, when i think of you and i, i wonder...was i the crusher or was i the crushed?

sometimes, i wonder about you, just as i am sure you wonder about me. i mean, we are human after all. but god forbid one of us picks up the phone or emails the other. despite everything that has happened and every thing that was said…god forbid, because we have too much pride, don’t we? so i will continue to wonder about you, just as you will probably continue to wonder about me. and as a result, i will always wonder what could have been.

just like i know you are going to automatically think this is about you.
well, it’s not.
because you see…sometimes…
sometimes, things aren’t always what they seem.

sometimes, i forget.
which ever role i played.

sometimes i floss my teeth with my hair. only when i'm bored at work and i've run out of things to look at on the internet which means i don't do it often. i have thick, luxurious hair that works well for flossing. i also lose a lot of hair while blowdrying or flatironing or breathing, mostly because i have so much of it. one day i will weave you a fine bolero jacket from lost hair. but only after i take a handfull of margarine and smear it all over your face. ok, just your mouth. then we'll kiss hard and rough to ensure that i have equal amounts of margarine on my own face. then i'll walk away and you'll stare at my ass and shake your head in disbelief, like, AGAIN?

un-lady-like

i think this is weird but i jilled off 6 times this morning. idunno how it happened. i was on the couch putting on some makeup and watching the news and was like, it's time. perhaps it happened because i was checking out my vadge in my little hand-held make-up mirror? perhaps. i know it wasn't the news i was watching. you'd think the news would hinder the act but i was pleasantly surprised to find out it didn't. and i know girls aren't supposed to say things like this but i tasted it. i also wanted to go back to sleep but sadly i had to get dressed for work. i wonder if he knew what was going on after he got out of the shower because you know when you get yourself a lot of times in a row it smells like sex in the room. i was thinking that he notice because we both were freshly showered and you might smell something out of the ordinary that's not necessarily bad but sex'ish. like i give a shit.

85degrees of regret

Well what do you know, to bask in the warm 85 degree southern california weather was fantastic for my health. Of course it was. Laying on the beach in January is the best thing ever. i think it would be ironic if i moved to san diego and my sister decided to move back to the bay area. l.a. is an enigma to me. i saw a short little midget-esque woman doing squats with a huge weight bar on the beach. we weren't even anywhere near venice. how did she get that piece of gym equipment out to the beach anyway? i saw a very jazzersize'esque tranny strolling in front of pinkberry like only a tranny can . i took my eyes off my heavenly yogurt only for a moment to admire the legwarmers and ankle weights. he was followed by a bette midler fake impersonator. if that's red, what's orange??? i probably said that too loud. i hung with a lady with 25 mice in her home. she saved them certain death by snake ingestion. she was very hospitable and offered many varieties of stuff you put in a bong. i saw a man enjoying a leisurely beverly hills lunch with his dog on his lap. his lapdog was a 70'ish lb lab. oh beverly hills, you so crazy! spy photos! i also saw pineap ple express which is now in my top5 and it's not just because i was introduced to a certain person in that film when i went to visit his dad. if that was the case i would have liked spiderman a lot more than i did. yes, i regret not fucking him.

happy birthday jesus, you magic man!

the best christmas tradition we have is the one where we stay in new pj's all day and drink mimosas. last year we also threw in 9 hours of guitar hero. i figured we'd do the same this year but instead we had all of the single men we know with nowhere to go on christmas day over to our house. this will always seem like a good idea when you think it in your head and even maybe when you say it out loud to said single men, but when they start showing up holding bottles of alcohol you start to wonder, really? what kind of idiot are you? I was happy to see 6 more bottles of champagne, you know, to keep the mimosa train rolling. when i saw 1 bottle of cheap vodka pass through my front door i was leary but thought that might also work well with the oj. but when one bachelor showed up with 1 bottle of absinthe...well lets just say i pretty much knew right there that this would end badly. already drunk me + pj's that show off more boob than is appropriate for men other than your boyfriend + being the only "lady"/attention whore in the house + absinthe layered over vodka layered over champagne = this will end badly. like i needed to lay that equation out for you. i remember dancing in the kitchen to some bowie on vinyl while i checked out my own rack in the mirror. i remember mentally high fiving myself but real life winking and finger-gun-shooting at myself as i admired my tits. i remember watching porn in the basement with 4 dudes watching behind me. i remember not being as uncomfortable with this as i probably should have been. i remember more dancing, more absinthe, and karaoke. then the rest comes in flashes. flash to puke. flash to the shower. flash to the bed. flash to another chic. flash to the dog barking. flash to finally locking the front door and turning off all the lights. at 10pm. TEN PM! now that's how you celebrate jesus' birthday right there.
i don't drink anymore.

sometimes we'll go a week without...and when we do...we do not discuss

sometimes we'll go a week without
weeks. like, a few weeks. this is very difficult for me since i am entering my prime. your 'low drive' excuse is tired because i'm quite certain you toss off once a day. your 'catholic guilt' excuse is also tired. those two in that list of excuses are accompanied by the 'i saw my mom get hit' excuse and the 'i don't want you to think i see you as a sex object' excuse. i'm tired of all of them because being an object isn't a bad thing every once in a while. being slapped can be fun. i can get with that. also, i am not your mom. the worst on that list is the one where you say that the sex is not the most important thing in a relationship. don't you go making me feel like an addict. don't you dare. i don't go around calling you a fag because you aren't consistently fucking me, now do i? no. sometimes we'll go a week or three without.
and when we do
you don't look at me. ever. you only like to fuck me from behind. make no mistake, i do like it that way, but once in a while it's nice to feel the weight of you on top of me. you don't pull my hair hard enough. it's like you only do it to hold on and it's only for a minute. leverage. you don't say dirty things to me. you don't say anything actually. you don't make a sound. nothing. it's quiet. not peaceful. awkward, almost. it'd be nice to hear just a little grunt to let me know you're even ok with how far down my throat your dick is creeping. speaking of, your face hasn't been down near my spot in i don't know how long. i can count the number of times it has been in two years, on one hand. it seems as though you're totally put off by me. by sex. by my sex. remember that one time i pounced on you wearing only a tank & boyshorts? and you told me to get off of you because we had to go? because you had work to do? ouch. and that's just one example. and when we do it's just ok.
we do not discuss
fantasies. past experiences. there is no giggling at embarrassing old sex stories. we do not share. i'm not ashamed or afraid. i'm interested in hearing what you've done, what you want to do, what you won't do. i'm open to anything and that's not just because the times we finally do are few and far between. like i'm desperate. for affection and sex and connecting. because of all of this, it's like my ego has been stomped on by optimus prime. i've stopped asking for it. i've stopped part of who i am because no ego can recover from being stomped on by optimus prime. we do not discuss because i fear that you will resent it. the catch 22 is that i am beginning to resent that we don't. we do not discuss.